by Unknown
The mare found the heads of Ivan Sunson and Ivan Moonson, together with their bodies. And with three licks and three kicks she quickened them – just as she had quickened her son. Then the son said to his mother, ‘But where are our women, Mamasha?’
‘I don’t know.’
Then he said to his brothers, ‘They must have been seized by that heathen power.’
And the mother said, ‘You must stand your arrow in the ground again. Then I shall know you’re still alive.’
And away she galloped to a broad valley.
‘Well, brothers,’ said Ivan Mareson. ‘Now we must hunt for three days and nights. We need skins so we can stitch a long rope.’
For three days and nights they hunted wild beasts and stitched a long rope from their skins.
‘Well, brothers,’ said Ivan Mareson. ‘Now you must lower me into this burrow. If the rope isn’t long enough, then you must tie your belts to the end of it. And if I don’t tug on the rope within twelve days, you must leave the burrow and go where your eyes look.’
They lowered him down in a cradle. Down and down he went. Then the cradle came to a stop. They had only needed to tie one belt to the end of the rope.
Ivan Mareson got out of the cradle and set off along a path. He walked maybe a long way, maybe a short way, until he came to a lake. He walked all the way round this lake. He saw three women coming towards him. He hid in the undergrowth. As the women drew level with him, he shot an arrow across the path. The three women were going to the lake; they were carrying buckets and were on their way to fetch water. And the first of them was his betrothed. As the arrow flew past, she gave a start and a little scream: ‘Oh!’
‘Sister, why did you scream?’ asked her two sisters.
‘It was just a little mouse. It ran across the path in front of me.’
And that was all she said.
The three sisters filled their pails. Then the first sister began to dawdle.
‘Sister, why are you hanging back?’ asked her sisters.
‘I feel like staying out in the fresh air. You go on your way. I’ll come back later.’
Once her sisters were out of sight, she said in the Russian tongue, ‘Is it you, my betrothed? Are you here?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
She was overjoyed. They began talking. Ivan asked her, ‘What about the serpent? Where is he? Is he lying wounded?’
‘He’s lying wounded – stretched out in a cradle.’
‘What shall I do? Shall I go and fight him now? Or shall I wait?’
‘Wait till noon. Wait till the cradle goes still. That’ll mean he’s fallen asleep.’
Ivan Mareson went up to the cradle. It was still rocking. But at noon it went still. The serpent had fallen asleep. Ivan took hold of the serpent and squeezed the life out of him. And that was the end of the last of the fiery cloud.
And off Ivan went to find his women. He took all they needed from the storeroom, and he led his women to the foot of the burrow.
Ivan Mareson tied the stores to the rope. He tugged on the rope, and his brothers hauled the stores up. The brothers let the rope down again, and he tied Ivan Moonson’s woman to the rope. He tugged on the rope, and his brothers hauled her up. The brothers let the rope down again. He tied Ivan Sunson’s woman to the rope. He tugged on the rope, and they hauled her up too. The brothers let the rope down once again. Then Ivan Mareson and his betrothed began to argue. Yes, deep in her heart she had a sense …
‘Let’s tie you to the rope!’ said his betrothed.
‘No, let’s tie you to the rope!’ said Ivan Mareson. ‘You’ve been badly frightened down here.’
Ivan Mareson won the argument. He tied his betrothed to the rope. But when it came to his turn, they pulled him halfway up and then cut the rope. He fell to his death. His brothers seized his betrothed and led her away from the mouth of the burrow.
The brothers began to assault his betrothed; they tried to force themselves on her. She did not give in. They punished her. Whenever they took their yurt down, it was she who had to move it. She would have to drag it along on a sled; she would wash herself in her own tears. She began to fade and wither. Yes, she was withering like a blade of grass; she could barely even drag her own two legs any further.
The mare remembered her son. She ran to look for his arrow. It had fallen over. She began running about. Nowhere could she find the mouth of the burrow. She turned the yurt upside down. Now she could see the burrow. She sniffed inside it: yes, she could smell her son. She made her way down. She reached the bottom: there he was, lying dead on the ground. Just as she had done before, she quickened him. When she had finished, Ivan Mareson leaped to his feet and shook himself.
‘Oh, Mama!’ he said. ‘Oh Mamasha, I’ve been sleeping a long time.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ she replied. ‘And if I hadn’t come, you would never have got to your feet again.’
‘Mamasha,’ he said, ‘how are we going to get up to the upper world again?’3
‘My child,’ she replied. ‘For three days and nights you must kill wild beasts. You must stitch two bags from their skins. You must chop up their meat. Then you must fill the bags with the meat.’
Ivan Mareson worked for three days and nights. Then he filled two bags and hung them over his mother the mare. Then she said, ‘Sit on my back, child. I’ll start to climb up. Each time I look round, you must give me a piece of meat. That way, I’ll get to the upper world again.’
Each time the mare looked round, he gave her a piece of flesh.
But he ran out of flesh. She looked round – and he had nothing to give her. He cut off a toe from his right foot and gave it to her. She looked round again – and he had nothing to give her. He cut off a piece of his right calf and gave it to her. She looked round a third time – and he had nothing to give her. He cut off a piece of his right ear and gave it to her.
Now they had come to the light of the upper world. Ivan Mareson dismounted from his mother the mare.
‘Oh, my child,’ she said. ‘I’m tired. But what was the sweet piece of gristle you gave me last of all?’
‘My ear,’ he replied.
She coughed it up and licked it back into place.
‘And what was it you gave me the second time that was so sweet?’
‘That was from my right calf,’ he replied.
She coughed it up and licked it back into place.
‘And what was the hard bit you gave me the first time?’
‘One of my right toes,’ he replied.
She coughed it up and licked it back into place.
Then Ivan Mareson fell down at her feet, before her right hoof.
‘Farewell, my dear mother,’ he said. ‘Farewell forever. I don’t think we’ll be meeting again.’
‘Where are you going now, my dear son?’ she asked.
‘I’m going to catch up with my brothers, Mamasha!’ he replied. ‘And with my betrothed.’
Ivan Mareson said farewell – and off he ran. His mother remained behind. Ivan ran and ran. He came to the site of a fire – but no one was there. He came to the site of a second fire – but no one was there. He came to the site of a third fire – his brothers had left only just before him.
Not far away he could see a woman. She was pulling something – a Tungus sled. And on this sled were stacked all the poles from a yurt – this was how his betrothed was being punished. His betrothed was alone with her burden. There was no one else to be seen. On she walked, washing herself with her tears. Ivan Mareson began pulling the poles off the sled. At first she sensed nothing, but when he removed the last pole, she sensed that the load behind her had grown lighter. She stopped, looked round and saw a young warrior. With her eyes full of tears, she could not see who it was.
‘A fine young warrior you are!’ she said. ‘My end was drawing near, but you’ve added more tears and more grief.’
‘What’s happened to you, Marfida Tsarevna?’ replied Ivan Mareson. ‘How can you not know yo
ur own betrothed?’
Her heart leaped within her. She wiped away her tears. She knew him.
‘Oh my betrothed and beloved! See how near I was to my end! See what they’ve done to me!’4
Ivan Mareson got rid of the sled, sat his woman on his shoulders and set off after his brothers. Very soon he caught up with them. They were making a fire for the night. He lost no time. In the fury of his heart, he squeezed the life out of them.
Then he took from his pocket the spoonbills’ birdskins and wings. He pulled out some of the feathers from these six wings and made wings for himself too. Then the sisters put on their birdskins and they all four of them – Ivan and the three sisters – flew away to the Mountains of Zion and their silken grasses. Then Ivan and his betrothed were married. And her two sisters became her servants. And so Ivan lived and grew old – and now this tale is told.
Ivan Yakovlevich Bilibin
(1876–1942)
Other than Pushkin and Afanasyev themselves, there are few figures more closely associated with the Russian magic tale than the illustrator and stage designer Ivan Bilibin.
While still studying under the painter and sculptor Ilya Repin, Bilibin was commissioned to illustrate seven Russian folktales; the resulting series of slim paperbacks (1899–1902) brought him to the attention of the ‘World of Art’ group headed by Serge Diaghilev and Alexander Benois. Bilibin went on to work for the Ballets Russes.
Just as Diaghilev had a uniquely holistic vision of the potential of opera, so Bilibin had a unique vision of the potential of the illustrated book. The art historian David Jackson has written that ‘Bilibin pioneered the modern notion of the book as a total design entity, a work of art, rather than an object that merely contained works of art. […] His ability to conceive the overall vision of the completed object, rather than place images alongside appropriate sections of text as “illustrations” was unrivalled. Interlinking motifs, border decorations, integrated and stylized typography, vignettes and “split screen” techniques based on the forms of indigenous architectural styles reveal an artist–designer in a class of his own.’1
In 1920, Bilibin left Russia for Cairo, and in 1925 he settled in Paris, where he earned his living by decorating private mansions and Orthodox churches. In 1936, however, he decorated the Soviet Embassy; soon after this he returned to Soviet Russia. From then until 1941 he lectured in Leningrad, in the Soviet Academy of Arts. He died in February 1942, during the Siege.
Though not widespread as an oral tale, ‘The Tale of Ivan Tsarevich, the Grey Wolf and the Firebird’ was versified by two important Romantic poets, Nikolay Yazykov and Vasily Zhukovsky. It was the first of the tales that Bilibin illustrated and during the last hundred years it has been republished countless times, usually together with Bilibin’s illustrations. Bilibin’s other illustrations from this period were published with texts taken from Afanasyev. ‘The Tale of Ivan Tsarevich, the Grey Wolf and the Firebird’, however, was published in a version different from Afanasyev’s. It is this more succinct and dramatic version that follows.
Ivan Tsarevich, the Grey Wolf and the Firebird
In a certain land, in a certain tsardom, lived Tsar Demyan. He had three sons: Pyotr Tsarevich, Vasily Tsarevich and Ivan Tsarevich. And he had a fine orchard; no tsar in the world had a finer orchard. In it grew many precious trees, and there was an apple tree that bore golden apples. The tsar treasured these apples and he counted them every morning. But then he realized that someone was robbing his orchard. In the evening he would see a beautiful apple, ripening on his beloved tree – and in the morning that apple would be gone. And there were no guards who could catch the thief. Every morning the tsar counted one less apple on his beloved tree. His grief stopped him from eating, drinking or sleeping. In the end he called his three sons and said, ‘Listen, sons! You must each stand guard in my orchard. Whoever of you catches the thief shall reign over half of my tsardom while I’m alive and inherit the whole of it when I die.’
The three sons promised to do as he said. First it was the turn of Pyotr Tsarevich. All evening he walked up and down the garden, but he saw nothing. Then he sat down on the soft grass beneath the tree – and what did he do but fall fast asleep! In the morning some apples were missing.
‘Well, my son?’ asked his father. ‘Will you bring joy to my heart? Did you see the thief?’
‘No, Father and Tsar. I was awake all night, but I saw nothing. I don’t know how the apples can have disappeared.’
It seemed impossible to catch the thief. The tsar felt still sadder. But he hoped his second son would do better.
Next it was the turn of Vasily Tsarevich. He went out in the evening and sat beneath the tree. He began watching the bushes: was someone hidden there? But as the night grew darker, he fell fast asleep. And by the morning there were several fewer apples left on the tree.
‘Well, my son?’ asked his father. ‘Will you bring joy to my heart? Did you see the thief?’
‘No, Father and Tsar. I didn’t close my eyes once all night. I watched and watched, but I saw no one. I don’t understand how the golden apples can have disappeared.’
The tsar felt still sadder. On the third evening it was the turn of Ivan Tsarevich. He began walking about by the tree. He was afraid of falling asleep and he didn’t dare sit down for even a minute. He kept watch for an hour, and he kept watch for a second hour. He kept watch for a third hour. When he felt sleep creeping up on him, he washed his eyes with dew.
In the small hours something glimmered in the distance. A light was flying through the air, straight towards him. The whole garden grew bright as day. It was the Firebird. She perched on the tree and began to peck at the golden apples. Ivan Tsarevich crept along the ground, leapt into the air and grabbed her by the tail. But, no matter how hard he gripped, it was not enough. The Firebird pulled and pulled – and away she flew, leaving one tail feather behind in his hand.
That morning, as soon as the tsar awoke, Ivan Tsarevich went to show him the feather and tell him who had been stealing the apples. The tsar was delighted that his youngest son had something to show him, even if it was only a feather. He took this feather and hid it away in his room. After that the Firebird never came back and the tsar began eating, drinking and sleeping again. But he would gaze and gaze at the feather and he could not stop thinking about the Firebird. In the end he decided he’d send his sons to go and catch the Firebird. He called them to him and said, ‘Listen, my dear sons! I want you to saddle your fine steeds, ride out into the wide world and catch me the Firebird. Otherwise she might come back and start stealing my apples again.’
The two eldest sons bowed to him, saddled their steeds, put on their fine armour and rode off. As for Ivan Tsarevich, he was the youngest son and the tsar wanted to keep him at home. But Ivan implored his father with tears in his eyes, and in the end the tsar gave him leave to go.
Ivan Tsarevich mounted his fine steed – and off he rode. He rode a short way, or maybe a long way – what’s quick to say can take many a day. At last, however, Ivan Tsarevich came to a stone pillar where three roads met. On it was written:
If you ride straight on, you will grow cold and hungry;
If you turn to the right, you will live but your horse will die.
If you turn to the left, you will be killed but your horse will live.
Ivan Tsarevich read these words and thought for a long time: which road should he follow? In the end he turned to the right, in order to stay alive.1
He rode all that day and all through the next day. On the third day Ivan Tsarevich came to a deep forest. It turned dark and all of a sudden a big grey wolf sprang out of the bushes and leapt at Ivan Tsarevich’s horse. Before the tsarevich could draw his sword, the wolf had torn his horse in half and vanished into the bushes.
Ivan Tsarevich felt very sad: how could he keep going without his good steed? But he walked on. He walked all that day and all through the next day. On the third day he sat down on an old tree stump to rest. H
e was tired to death, and he was hungry. And then, as if from nowhere, the grey wolf sprang out and said, ‘Why do you grieve, Ivan Tsarevich? Why are you hanging your head like that?’
‘How can I not grieve, Grey Wolf? Where can I go without my good steed?’
‘It was you who chose this road. Still, I feel sorry for you. Where is it you’re going?’
‘My father the tsar sent me to catch the Firebird who was stealing his golden apples.’
‘Well,’ said the wolf, ‘you wouldn’t have found your way to her on your good steed in a thousand years. I’m the only one who knows where the Firebird lives. You’d do best to ride on my back and hold tight. It was I who killed your steed – now I shall serve you in word and in deed.’
Ivan Tsarevich mounted the grey wolf. The wolf leapt forward and raced off. With each stride the wolf cleared a mountain or vale, and he swept his tracks clean with his tail. After a long time, or maybe a short time, they came to a high wall. The wolf stopped and said to Ivan Tsarevich, ‘Here you are, Ivan Tsarevich. Climb over the wall and you’ll come to a garden. In the garden you’ll find the Firebird in a golden cage. The guards are all asleep. Take the Firebird, but whatever you do, don’t try to steal the cage. If you do, you’re in trouble.’
Ivan Tsarevich listened to the wolf’s words, climbed over the wall and saw the Firebird. He opened the cage door and took her out. He was about to climb back when he thought, ‘Why have I taken the Firebird out of her cage? I’ll never be able to carry her all the way in my bosom. And it’s a precious cage – all studded with diamonds!’ He forgot what the grey wolf had said to him and turned back. The moment he touched the cage, there was a knocking and ringing that went all through the garden. Attached to the cage were hidden strings with all kinds of little bells and rattles.
The guards awoke, rushed into the garden, seized Ivan Tsarevich, bound his hands and took him straight to their master, Tsar Afron. Tsar Afron was furious. ‘Who are you and where are you from?’ he asked. ‘Who is your father and what is your name?’
‘My name is Ivan Tsarevich and I’m the son of Tsar Demyan. Your Firebird kept visiting our garden. Every night she was stealing the golden apples from my father’s beloved tree. In the end my father sent me to catch the Firebird and bring her back to him.’
